Starhaven

Chapter V

A gleaming slidewalk took them up twenty feet to a handsome mezzanine where a bank of liftshafts stood waiting. Mantell let the girl enter a shaft first, and followed her in. She dialed for Level Nine.

“The ninth-level dining hall is the best one,” she explained. “Also the most expensive. Wait till you see it.”

They zipped upward, passing the seven intermediate floors in one long dizzying swoop, and the lift tube came to a halt. A sheet of blank metal faced them— shining, highly polished, mirror-reflective. Myra reached out a hand and touched her ornate signet ring to the surface of the barrier. The door crumpled inward instantly. They went in.

A bland robot waited just inside, a sleek little machine with a single staring wide-perspective eye set in the middle of its otherwise blank face. It came rolling up as if greeting an old friend and said to the girl, “Good evening, Miss Butler. Your usual table?”

“Of course. This is John Mantell, by the way. My escort for the evening.”

The robot’s photonic register focused on Mantell for a moment. He heard an instant humming sound and knew that he had been photographed and permanently pigeonholed for future reference.

“Come this way, please,” the robot invited.

The place was sheer luxury. Heavy red synthetic velvet draperies helped to muffle the sound. There were faint traces of aromatic scent in the air, and soft music from an invisible orchestra could be heard, all tingling violins and shimmering cellos. After his seven years on Mulciber, Mantell felt utterly out of place. But the robot glided along in front of them, leading them to their table, and Myra at his side moved with a gliding grace that seemed almost too perfect to be natural, yet had a life and a smoothness that no robot known could match.

They stopped at a freeform table set close against the curving silver wall. A little oval window, crystal-clear, looked out on the city below. It was a city of parks and greenish-blue lakes and soaring buildings. Ben Thur-dan had built an incredible fairy garden of a world here on Starhaven, Mantell thought.

And dedicated it to crime. Mantell scowled at that, until he reminded himself that he himself was nothing but a criminal, a—a killer, no matter what he remembered of the incident. He had no right to pass judgment on Ben Thurdan. He was here and safe, and he had to be grateful for that fact.

The robot drew out Myra’s chair, then his. He lowered himself to its plastic-covered seat. It clung to his body; sitting in the ingenious suspension-foam chair was like drifting in zero grav.

The violins in the background seemed to underscore the moment. Mantell sat quietly, looking at her. Those marvelous strange blue eyes held him—but that was far from all of her there was to see. It was impossible to fault Thurdan on his taste here. Myra was wide-shouldered, with flawless hps and a delicate thin-bridged nose. Her eyes flashed like gems when she spoke. Her voice was soft and well-modulated and just a httle on the throaty side.

Mantell said, “Tell me something—does every newcomer to Starhaven get this sort of treatment? Violins and fancy meals, and all?”

“No.”

The muscles around his jaws tightened. He sensed that he was being teased, and he didn’t care for it.

“Why am I being singled out, then? I’m sure Thurdan doesn’t send his—secretary out to dinner with every stray beachcomber who comes to Starhaven.”

“He doesn’t,” she said sharply. Changing the subject clearly and emphatically she asked, “What would you like to drink?”

Mantell considered for a moment and finally ordered a double kiraj; she had vraffa, very dry. The wine steward was a robot, too, who murmured obsequiously and vanished to return with their drinks in a few seconds, bowed, and scuttled away.

Mantell sipped thoughtfully. After a moment he said. “You changed the subject on me pretty quickly. You’re being mysterious, Miss Butler.”

“My name is Myra.”

“As you wish. But you changed the subject again. You’re still being mysterious.”

She laughed, reached across the table, took his hand. “Don’t ask too many questions too soon, Johnny. It’s a dangerous thing to do on Starhaven at any time—but don’t ask questions so soon. You’ll learn everything you want to know in time. Maybe.”

“Okay,” he said, shrugging.

He wasn’t that anxious to pry, after all. Seven years of roaming the bleak shore line on Mulciber had left him detached, indifferent about many things. He had become experienced in the art of drifting along passively on the tide of events, letting things happen as they wanted to happen.

This girl had taken some special interest in him, it seemed. He decided to accept that on face value, for the moment, and let the explanations go till later.

“Starhaven’s a little different from Mulciber, isn’t it?” she asked suddenly, breaking into his reverie.

“Very different,” he said.

“You spent seven years on Mulciber.”

“You saw my psychprobe charts, didn’t you? You don’t need to get a verbal verification from me.” He felt obscurely annoyed. They were fencing, dancing around a conversation rather than engaging in one. And it was very much like dancing at arm’s length. He felt uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to rake up old wounds. Ben built this place so people like you could come here . . . and forget. Mulciber’s nothing but a bad dream now, Johnny.”

“I wish it were. But I spent seven years begging for nickels there. I killed a man there. You don’t blot out a memory like that the way you do a bad dream.” He spoke toughly, and she reacted as if he had slapped her across the face. The liquor was getting to him too fast, he thought.

“Let’s forget it, shall we?” she said with forced light-heartedness. She lifted her glass. “Here’s to Ben Thur-dan and the world he built. Here’s to Starhaven!”

“Here’s to Starhaven,” Mantell echoed.

They drank, draining their glasses, and then they ordered another from the wine steward. Mantell’s head was beginning to swim a little, but it was a pleasant sensation. He was aware that somewhere during the third drink Myra ordered dinner, and not much later a couple of robots laden with trays came shuffling up and began to unload. Truffles, baked pheasant, white and red wines, Vengilani crabs on shell as a side dish. He stared at the array, aghast.

She said, “Is something the matter, Johnny? You don’t look so well.”

“This is a fifty-credit—fifty-chip dinner. That’s a little out of my orbit.”

She smiled. “Don’t be silly, Johnny. This is Ben’s treat. I have a pass that takes care of things hke this. Dig in and don’t worry about the checkl”

He dug in. He hadn’t eaten that well in his life—and certainly not since August 11, 2793, a day he remembered vividly. That was the day Klingsan Defense Screens of Terra, Incorporated, had decided it could do without his scientific services.

As he ate, he thought about the events of that day. He remembered, wincing involuntarily, reporting to work two hours late and a good three sheets to the wind, and finding the pink discharge slip on his desk. He had snorted angrily and gone storming down to the executive level to see Old Man Klingsan himself. He had burst into the office of the company head, demanding to know why he was being fired.

Klingsan had told him. Then Mantell had told Klingsan three or five things that had been on his mind for a while, and by the time he was through talking he had succeeded in getting himself blacklisted from Rim to Core; there wasn’t a world in the galaxy that would give him employment now.

A well-meaning friend had lined up a cheap job for him on Mulciber, far from Earth. He had shot his last ninety credits getting there from Viltuun, just in time to learn that his reputation had preceded him and he wasn’t wanted on Mulciber.

But he couldn’t leave without fare money. And for seven solid years he had never managed to accumulate enough cash in one chunk to pay for his transportation off that lazy, enervating semi-tropical world. Not until the day the Space Patrol came after him on a murder charge, and he’d had to get off.

“You’re brooding about something, Johnny,” Myra said suddenly. “I told you not to think of Mulciber any more. Try to forget it.”

“I wasn’t thinking of Mulciber,” he lied. “I was thinking—thinking that it’s perfectly permissible for me to skip out of here without paying the check. I mean, the restaurant owners don’t have any legal recourse. They can’t. There’s no specific law against it.”

“That’s true enough. But you won’t have any recourse, either, if they catch you and slice you up for steak. Or —if you like this place and ever want to come back— they’ll simply refuse you admittance. Or they could slip you some slow poison the next time you come in here to cadge a meal.”

He thought that over for a moment or two. Then a new and startling conclusion struck him. “You know something? I almost think an upside-down free-flying setup like this works out better than one based on a complex system of laws based on high moral precepts and obsolete customs. Here, the crimes cancel each other out into zeros!”

She nodded. “That’s Ben’s big idea. If you take a group of people, none of whom are cluttered up by morals, and enforce this kind of code on them, their collective rascality will all even out into a pretty regular, practical kind of law-observance. It’s only when you start throwing virtuous people into the system that it falls apart.”

Mantell frowned. He had the feeling that there was an inconsistency somewhere in her glib argument, but at the moment he was not interested in finding it.

He grinned at her. “You know, I think I’m going to like this place,” he said.